"He has strength to do anything—there is the pity of it. There never lived a man who so had his life in his own hand as Arthur Saxton. Would you have me marry him to reform him? Have I no right to feel proud, on my side?"
"No, to the first," says I, "and yes, to the second. He has waked up at last, I feel sure—if only you could believe in him a little more."
"Oh, Will!" she said, "that is what I fear the most. I don't care if he demands much, for so do I, but to be dependent that way—I cannot trust him, till he trusts himself."
"Yes, Mary," I agreed; "but at the same time, he's lots more of a man than the average, handicap him with all his faults!"
She answered me with a curious smile. "Mine is an unhappy nature in one way," she said; "half a loaf is worse than no bread to me. I'd rather never know of Paradise than see and lose it." She threw her hands out suddenly, in a gesture that was little short of agony.
"Oh, I wish sometimes I had no moral sense at all—that I could just live and be happy—and I can't be very good if I wish that—that's a comfort." She turned to me. "Now, Will, I have opened my heart to you as I could not have done to my own mother; will you believe me if I say I cannot talk about this any more?"
"Sure, sweetheart," I said, and kissed her. She let her head stay on my shoulder.
"You are a great comfort, brother Will," she said. The tone made something sting in my eyes. Poor little woman, fighting it out all alone, so unhappy under the smiles, so born to be happy!
I couldn't speak to save me. She looked up at my face. "You are a brave and noble gentleman, brother mine," she said. I think that would have finished me up—I am such a darned woman at times, but she changed quick as lightning.
"Let's play with the children," she said. "We've had enough of this."